


Hulk Roulette

by curiouslyfic



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiouslyfic/pseuds/curiouslyfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce doesn’t know exactly what Clint Barton’s doing to Bruce’s wrist restraints but he’d bet his Stark research honorarium that Clint is not there to be groped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hulk Roulette

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to lordhellebore@LJ for the beta. ♥

“Hold still for me, buddy,” Clint says quietly and Bruce does, lets Clint crawl all over him and graze Bruce’s dick with his thigh. It’s uncomfortable in the very best way and Bruce has to fight not to make a sound. When Hydra took them captive, Bruce was pretty sure things were going to get messy; when Hydra threw them into a cell together, disarmed save the Other Guy, Bruce thought miserably that he might make a mess of _Clint_. 

He still does, actually, but not quite the same mess as before. 

Clint’s pressing hard against him, tongue tucked firmly in a corner of his mouth, utterly focused on Bruce’s overhead wrist restraints. If Bruce just turns his head a little, he could touch the underside of Clint’s jaw, feel Clint’s stubble against his lips and maybe sneak a taste of the skin of Clint’s throat. 

That’s all incredibly appealing. Bruce doesn’t need his heart monitor to know it’s a bad idea. 

“Jesus,” Clint mutters, fighting with something that pulls painfully at Bruce’s wrists. “It’s a fucking miracle, Doc. We’ve finally found a Hydra agent who might actually be competent at this whole hostage-taking thing.” 

Clint doesn’t sound happy. Bruce sympathizes right up to the point that Clint scrambles up him a little more. 

Clint’s climbing Bruce like a tree now, anchoring himself up by pressing his thighs tight against Bruce’s waist, hovering closer than anyone since Betty. Bruce needs to start counting things now, Bruce needs to start picturing wide green fields so he doesn’t do something stupid about it. 

Because Bruce doesn’t know exactly what Clint Barton’s doing to Bruce’s wrist restraints but he’d bet his Stark research honorarium that Clint is not there to be groped. 

“Goddammit,” Clint bites out, pulling hard enough to pinch a nerve cluster Bruce thinks might be important later, jerking Bruce’s wrists away from the wall a little before they forcibly snap back. The wriggling to keep himself balanced rubs Clint’s crotch against Bruce’s belly; Bruce doesn’t quite bite down on his groan fast enough. Clint stops immediately, leans a little and ducks his head to meet Bruce’s stare. “You okay, Doc? Sorry, I’m trying.” Clint smiles slightly, charming and crooked and hopeful. Bruce can only nod, doesn’t trust his voice to get out actual words without giving himself away. “Still just brown eyes,” Clint says helpfully — and, actually, that _is_ good to know — and then he’s squirming again to get himself back in position for the cuffs. “No worries, Doc. We’re going to get you out of these and then you can smash this place to shit. Deal?” 

Bruce can only nod again until logic kicks in. Clint Barton climbing on him is _distracting_ , he thinks forlornly, Bruce should have figured this out a while ago. “You’re not in restraints.” 

He can see Clint’s mouth curve into that grin again, the one that gives Bruce _ideas_. “Uh, no. Good catch, though. We’ll make an agent out of you yet.” 

“You should go,” Bruce manages, and oh, God, that’s hard to get out. If Clint goes — _when_ Clint goes — there’ll be no more climbing, but it’s better than the alternative. If Clint’s already escaped the Hydra restraints, he needs to get out of here before Hydra sends someone down to deal with them, not worry about _Bruce_ , who’s only ever one wrong move from letting the Other Guy handle things. 

Clint just ignores him, keeps working something that scrapes metal against metal over Bruce’s head. 

Bruce has heard all sorts of people say Clint Barton’s stubborn and reckless, got a self-destructive streak a mile wide and no qualms about using it on missions when he gets the chance, but until this moment, Bruce hasn’t really believed it. Hawkeye’s got a history of coming back from what should be one-way missions, job done and not that much the worse for wear. This, though, this seems like proof. 

Clint’s not just baiting Hydra now, he’s also baiting the Other Guy. Bruce feels like he might be one more squirm away from letting go and by every shred of evidence Bruce has seen about it, that could only end badly for everyone involved. 

Bruce really doesn’t want to have to tell Natasha he’s bringing Clint home broken and given Clint’s proximity, he is definitely going to get hurt if Bruce gives in. 

Still, Bruce is drowning in Clint’s scent, soap and dust and detergent all fading under sweat and coffee. Dammit, Clint even _smells_ like Hulk-bait. Bruce stands no chance of getting out of this with his dignity intact. 

“If you back off, I can try hulking out of them,” he offers. By now, the hulking out is inevitable. 

Clint snorts. “I’m guessing these are Hulk-proof,” he says absently. “Definitely not what they had me in.” Then, as though he’s realized how underwhelming that news might be, he adds, “Hey, but Hulk-proof ain’t Hawk-proof, right? Just hang in there, okay? They’re stubborn but they’ll crack.” 

Bruce shuts his eyes tight, leans back against the wall to put as much space between them as he can. It’s not much, obviously, but if Bruce tilts his head right, he’s sure he can find air to breathe that won’t smell like Clint. 

“You’re trying to pick the lock somehow?” Bruce asks, because it’s even worse with his eyes closed. He can pretend Clint is squirming over him for entirely different reasons if he doesn’t look — can’t shake the image once he’s thought about it, can’t help _wanting_ … — and in lieu of waiting hopelessly for a kiss that won’t be coming, Bruce needs to focus on what Clint’s actually doing. 

“Yup,” Clint drawls thickly, more country boy than Bruce has heard him in a long time. Clint clears his throat and shifts; a little lower and he’d know exactly what’s on Bruce’s mind right now. “That’s the plan, anyway.” 

“Good plan,” Bruce says shakily. 

“Thanks. Thought you’d like it.” Even without looking, Bruce can tell Clint’s smiling. 

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the heat of Clint, the smell of him, the way he moves and shifts and struggles with the lock. Bruce’s fingers curl, a clutch he can’t have, and Bruce has to work to stop himself from turning his face towards Clint’s chest, letting himself hide his flush in Clint’s shoulder until he has himself under control again. 

Then three things happen in quick succession: Clint jerks hard and something clicks loose over Bruce’s head and in the aftermath of Clint’s victorious blurt of sound, Bruce can hear someone coming down the hall towards them. 

“New plan,” Clint says, resolved, and “Sorry, Doc, kinda out of options, hit me later” and Clint’s slipping-sliding down Bruce’s body a little, covering Bruce’s mouth with his own. 

It’s nothing like Bruce expects, exactly what Bruce wants most, and kissing Clint back is automatic, just instinct taking over. Clint’s legs settle not far off Bruce’s hips and when Clint squirms this time, there’s all sorts of fabulous pressure on Bruce’s dick, and Bruce might be embarrassed if Clint weren’t hard, too. 

But he is. 

“This is a bad plan,” Bruce manages when he jerks back to catch his breath, only Clint’s following him, grinning reckless and rocking his hips suggestively. 

“Good plan,” Clint corrects fondly, and ducks in for another kiss. “Been thinking about this since they locked you up,” he confides, unmistakable heat in his expression. “Fucking Hydra. Making me work when all I want to do is play with you, get you good and riled before I suck you off.” 

Clint does actually sound resentful of the approaching footsteps. Bruce has a little trouble thinking past how genuinely responsive Clint feels. “You can’t be serious,” Bruce says helplessly as the footsteps stop in front of their cell. 

“Dead, Doc.” And as the door slides open, Clint’s leaning in to whisper into Bruce’s ear, “Get us out of here, we’ll play some Hulk Roulette when we get back.” 

And Bruce is already feeling a little Other Guy when Clint’s tongue licks the shell of Bruce’s ear. 

The Hydra team doesn’t even know what hit them, probably. Those cuffs melt right off. 

And five hours later, when they’re both sprawled damp and drained and sticky in Bruce’s bed, Bruce comes to the conclusion that Hulk Roulette might be his new favorite thing.


End file.
